The First Time They Kiss
by amyinsaney
Summary: "Yes, this is what I want. No, it doesn't change anything." One shot. Johnlock. That almost rhymed.


A/N: IT'S SO FLUFFY I'M GONNA DIE.

Disclaimer: I'm don't own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson (although I wish I did) or any of the other characters because I'm not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or the BBC. Sucks to be me.

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The First Time They Kiss

The first time they kiss, it's September. The rain has been almost constant for the past month, and damp, heavy air has crawled it's way into every crevice of 221B Baker Street, leaving beads of moisture on the papered walls. It's late afternoon, the digital clock on the oven reading 17:56pm, but nobody is paying particular attention to it or the water in the kettle that has almost boiled. Outside, pedestrians pound the pavement and put their heads down against the rain, which is presently pounding a tattoo against the windows of the apartment, rattling the panes of glass in the frames. They need double glazing, particularly with the way that the weather has turned, but Sherlock and John aren't thinking about that right now.

The first time they kiss, adrenaline is still coursing through their bodies. John's gun is still pressed against his body in his waistband, the smell of London air is still fresh on their clothes and newspaper clippings and paperwork still litter every surface. There's been a case, and today they solved it. It was a fairly low key affair: a child kidnapped from beneath the parents' noses. It was the aunt ("Obviously."), who arranged the little girls kidnapping in order to divert her sister's attention from the sordid affair she was having with her brother in law ("Boring!").It had been a chase, however, first trailing the kidnapper she'd hired and then the woman herself. In the end, they spent the majority of the afternoon following her across London, before engaging in a standoff until Lestrade arrived. The thrill of success is a high like no other, and it buzzes in their veins like an electric current.

The first time they kiss, it's hurried: two long strides to reach the other, pale hands grasping strong shoulders, a hard bump of lips. It's awkward and clumsy, their noses banging together and John's arms hanging limply by his sides with a teabag clasped in his fist, but neither seems to care. There's no sound but the roaring in their ears and the thumping of their hearts, no movement but where their pulses pound in their wrists and neck.

It's fast - a simple press of lips, although it's anything but simple – and when it's over, their faces stay close enough that Sherlock can count every one of the freckles smattered over John's nose. Sherlock has John pinned against the kitchen counter, and he does not loosen his hold nor does John attempt to escape it. Neither moves a fraction, not even daring to breathe lest they burst the bubble that has formed around them. Their eyes are locked, grey on blue, each asking a million questions and yet none at the same time. There is no sensation but each other, the tingling memory of the other man's lips on his own, the solidity of his hands on his shoulders, the sheer heat radiating from his body. Downstairs, Mrs Hudson slams the front door, calling out a vague greeting up the stairs, but Sherlock and John don't hear her.

The first time they kiss, it leads to another, one they're both prepared for this time. The teabag drops to the floor and, without breaking eye contact, John stretches up to Sherlock, his head tilting and his arms twining around the other man's neck.

"Married to your work, my arse, you lying git." John mutters as his fingers rake their way through thick black curls, and Sherlock responds with a low noise that could have been laughter, but then their lips meet, and this time, there is no awkwardness or clumsiness. There is nothing but the soft slide of lips against each other, Sherlock's fingers gently caressing the soft hair at the nape of John's neck, the tentative touch of a tongue, and the sweet promise of _Yes, this is what I want, and no, this doesn't change anything. _And it's easy, and perfect, and when Sherlock opens his mouth to John, cupping the smaller man's round face in his palms, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. When the earth starts to spin around John, he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against Sherlock's, his eyes closed, his heartbeat drumming in his ears. They stay that way for a few moments, simply existing, before Sherlock breaks the silence.

"Could be dangerous." he murmurs, his baritone voice even lower than usual. John opens his eyes to glare playfully at the detective, whose silver ones are appraising him with something between pride, affection and smugness.

"And yet here I am." John replies, brushing their noses together.

And the second time they kiss, and the third, and the fourth, and every time after that all carry the same promise. _Yes, this is what I want. No, it doesn't change anything. _And it doesn't. Everything continues the way it was before. Aside from the kissing, of course.


End file.
